Upon returning to his hometown of Toronto, Canada, from a final European tour with his band, Peter Dreimanis sat sweaty and half-drunk in a candlelit basement bar, nursing a drink, debating his next musical pursuit. Lulled in lethargy, he paid little attention to the beat-up acoustic guitar being passed from patron to patron around him; that was until it found its home in the hands of Leah Fay.
It took only seconds of strumming and dreamy, dulcet singing for Dreimanis to realize he’d met his muse.
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Upon returning to his hometown of Toronto, Canada, from a final European tour with his band, Peter Dreimanis sat sweaty and half-drunk in a candlelit basement bar, nursing a drink, debating his next musical pursuit. Lulled in lethargy, he paid little attention to the beat-up acoustic guitar being passed from patron to patron around him; that was until it found its home in the hands of Leah Fay.
It took only seconds of strumming and dreamy, dulcet singing for Dreimanis to realize he’d met his muse. He sat listening, dumfounded, dreaming up ideas for what could come to be between the two of them. Clear-headed the next day, he started his search for the stranger from the bar with whom he seemingly shared a soul. He found her; they founded July Talk.
The basic structural facts of rock band July Talk are this: two front people, Leah Fay Goldstein and Peter Dreimanis, surrounded by whiplashing guitarists Ian Docherty and [[bandmember from=2012]Josh Warburton, and double drummers Danny Miles and Dani Nash. For this compulsively DIY, rigorously self-realizing group, the essence of July Talk has always been the tension between precision and chaos.
Audiences need not ask what July Talk’s two writhing frontpeople’s relationship is to each other, but rather what their relationship is to their audience, and to the world. These bodies welcome our gaze, they revel and recoil in it while they furiously push back, asking of us what they ask of each other: please see me for who I am. If we see July Talk as a woman and a man, in opposition to one another, what we are seeing is our own projections upon these bodies.
What goes on between these bodies, all of them, that kinetic, staticky, sticky space, is where the truth of July Talk takes shape. On stage, July Talk unfurls and explodes. July Talk is known by their success at radio and their unmatched live show. Both of these things are true, but neither tells the complete story.
As video directors, their meticulous and masterful visual work has created an entirely unique aesthetic, and propelled them into collaborations with other artists, including Tanya Tagaq, Born Ruffians and Jasmyn. Their pandemic drive-in show presented an emphatic vision of creative direction, with balletic live projections opening new possibilities for coming performances. July Talk’s quieter triumphs, growing in their roles as advocates for industry change and defining their own parameters for safer, decolonized spaces at rock shows with their Love Lives Here posters, now translated into twelve languages, are as important to the band’s identity and humanity.
We can hear July Talk as the contrast of two voices that interject, operate and overlap around one another. We’re not wrong, but it’s not the full story. July Talk is a decade-long dialogue between two people; it is also a continuous conversation with older generations, previous selves, collaborators.
Even in the stark orderliness of black and white, July Talk has always been a work in progress. More accurately, it’s a work of progress, a communal pursuit of limitlessness as a mode of being. For a decade, July Talk has continued in its relentless project to know itself, through its whiskey-soaked blues rock roots on its self-titles debut EP, the 2016 dance-rock infused Touch and its contemplation of connection, or the quietly reflective eyes of their 2020 release Pray For It.
With their forthcoming 2023 album Remember Never Before, the most potently yet inventively “July Talk” album yet, the band returns – changed – to where they began.
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…shrink me down again